


The Colossus Of “Roadside” (1903)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [211]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Destiel - Freeform, Dom/sub Undertones, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, Light BDSM, M/M, Paddling, Size Difference, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 18:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11856828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: It is said that the scope of humanity is, like the old hymn, deep and wide – and a former neighbour in 221B whom the great detective and his friend had not thought to see again proves that for a fact.





	The Colossus Of “Roadside” (1903)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the adventure of our co-tenant, Mr. Fairdale Hobbs'.

This 'case' comes to memory because of the unusual dual setting, starting from right inside our own dear 221B Baker Street, and ending on the Scottish border not far from my own birthplace up in distant Northumberland. And across both those settings bestrode the diminutive figure of Mr. Fairdale Hobbs who, along with the other key character in this story, subsequently emigrated to the wilds of the Canadian west. Thanks to the pervasiveness of the modern telegraph system, I had been able to reach him with a message asking if I could publish this case in Sherlock's collected works, and to my surprise, he – and his 'partner' - agreed. I advise the readers to brace themselves for this particular adventure, the outcome of which shocked me mightily!

As I have mentioned elsewhere, 221B was divided into a number of suites of rooms, one for the house owners (Mr. and Mrs. Lindberg, or the Singers, who returned briefly when the former went on holiday), and one each for their five sets of tenants. The rooms were scattered throughout the house which was why we rarely had any interaction with our co-tenants, except for the occupant of Number Four. Indeed, a previous tenant had purchased a three-month use of that room solely because she had wanted Sherlock to take her case, and was sure that her living in the same house would _guarantee_ his acceptance. I will not embarrass the socially elevated lady who found that her arrogant attitude landed her a lot of expense and no help whatsoever!

For some three years until quite recently, the occupant of Number Four had been one Mr. Fairdale Hobbs, a short (barely five foot tall) and unremarkable single gentleman in his mid-thirties, who I only remember because of his boyish blond curly hair which was almost as untidy as Sherlock's thatch - although to be fair, what Mr. Hobbs lacked in physical attributes, he more than made up for by his wonderfully selective hearing! Ever since the dreadful days of Professor Moriarty, Sherlock had ensured that Miss Charlotta Bradbury 'vetted' all tenants of 221B beforehand, so I knew that he was harmless enough.

The reason for Mr. Hobbs' recent departure from Baker Street had been an unexpected inheritance; of course we heard all the details from our landlady Mrs. Lindberg, who like her mother knew far too much of everyone else’s business. Mr. Hobbs' sudden wealth came from an unmarried cousin of whom he had hitherto barely been aware, until the man had decided to quit this mortal realm on New Year's Day and leave his entire estate to his distant relative. To wit, a considerable set of financial investments, a lead mine, two farms, a forest, a ruined peel tower and a house in the Allen Valley, all in Northumberland but quite some distance from my own home town of Belford. Mr. Hobbs was set for life.

I should explain that my home county had (and still; has) at least four very distinct cultures within its borders. As well as my brother Sammy’s Berwick-on-Tweed and Newcastle-upon-Tyne at either end of its long coast, there was also a division between the bulk of the rural areas in the east and north, and the south-western reaches, what had at one time been a county in its own right called Hexhamshire. This area had enjoyed an independent existence for some five centuries before being folded back into Northumberland in the sixteenth century. It possessed a similar Borderer culture to my home town area, but there were also definite differences. It is one of those parts of the country accurately described as 'out of the way'; very few people pass through it whilst going somewhere else, so it is relatively quiet.

+~+~+

Mr. Fairdale Hobbs departed our lives, such as he was ever in them, in the second week in January 1903 – I believe that there was some other relative who had contested his right to inherit, albeit unsuccessfully - and at the time I barely noticed his going, what with Sherlock's cases and my increasing hopes for our retirement the following year. We would doubtless not have even thought of our vanished neighbour ever again, had it not been for the arrival in 221B of one Mrs. Gwendolyn MacLeish. This lady was announced by Mrs. Lindberg one fine May morning, an unfortunate time to call on us as Sherlock had used the paddle the night before, and I needed both a rubber ring and a cushion before I could sit down. Even moving my head to acknowledge our visitor caused a burst of pain to run the length of my body, and my eyes to start watering.

It was gloriously agonizing!

Mrs. MacLeish was a frail-looking lady of about fifty years of age, rather badly-dressed in that terrible Victorian shade of mauve, and clearly overawed at just being here. It very rapidly became clear that she was probably too timorous to inform us as to the reason for her visit any time soon. Fortunately I had Sherlock, extractor of information and far too many simpering looks from females (and some males, damnation!) across the world.

“It must be a grave business that causes you to call in on us and break such a long journey”, my friend said politely.

Mrs. MacLeish looked most alarmed at his perspicacity, and Sherlock hastened to reassure her.

“Your ticket is a ladies' compartment through single, issued by the North Eastern Railway Company, which means that you began your journey in Northumbria”, he said. “It has been clipped three times, which further implies that you took a slow train to connect with the London express, hence the North Eastern branch, North Eastern main line and the Great Northern main line guards all punched your ticket. You also bear in your hand one of the former company's transitory luggage slips, which means that you have sent your bags on. Judging from the time, you must have caught the one of the first trains of the day to King's Cross, and the lack of any bag here indicates that you plan to reach your destination tonight. Yet in the middle of such a great trek, you have chosen to call on us. May we know why?”

I do not think I have met anyone who could resist that azure gaze, and Mrs. MacLeish lasted less than five seconds before bursting into speech.

“I am bound from my home in Hexham, in Northumberland, to my sister's house in Kent”, she said quickly. “I arranged everything months ago, but the past few weeks.... sirs, I am scared!”

“And what has scared you, pray?” Sherlock asked patiently. She took a deep breath.

“As well as my younger sister Cassandra, I have a brother Cassius, her twin, who emigrated to New Zealand some years back”, she said. “Most of his family went with him, but the youngest, Max – Mr. Maximilian Spears – chose to stay here. We do not see each other very often, as he is steward for a considerable estate that, until recently, was the property of a widower, a Mr. Christopher Rolleston. It really is quite an achievement for Max, who is barely twenty-one, but he worked for six years under a Mr. Martindale who then retired, and Mr. Rolleston very wisely chose him to take over the great responsibility.”

“Did you know this Mr. Rolleston?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head.

“I have never met him”, she said. “Max rarely wrote, but he seemed happy enough when he did, so I thought that everything was all right. But then....”

She juddered to a halt. Sherlock offered her a glass of sherry, and it seemed to give her strength.

“My own husband died last year”, she went on, “and I am planning to move into my sister's house. Jim – Cassie's husband - is quite happy with this; it is a big house and I can easily pay my way. However, as they live in Kent, I decided to call on Max before I left. I, um, did not let him know that I was coming.”

She had gone so red that I was tempted to reach for my medical bag. Also praying that I would not need it, as moving across the room to treat her would have been utter agony. _And someone could stop smirking like that, damn him!_

“Max has a small cottage right down by the river”, she stuttered, and I braced myself for whatever revelation was to come. “I called at the house first, of course, and they re-directed me. There was no sign of him, so I walked around the back, wondering if he was there. He is fond of gardening, you see, and can get quite lost in his own head when he is amongst his precious plants. Then I heard singing – well, I suppose Max would call it singing; he is practically tone-deaf – and I realized that he was down by the stream, which runs along the back of the place. I followed the path there, and I saw.... I saw.....”

She ground to a halt. 

“You saw what?” Sherlock prompted. She took another deep breath.

“He was bathing in the river!” she shuddered.

Oh. She saw her nephew naked. Oops.

“Not that!” she said, still shocked by what she had had to say. “No, sirs, you see, Max had his back to me, and right across his back was all welts and marks. As if someone had beaten him up. It was horrible!”

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked.

“I turned and fled back to the front, then knocked very loudly and called his name”, she said. “I gave him some time before I started around the side of the house, but he got to the door before I was far, and he was wearing a dressing-gown. Which I thought was odd.”

“Possibly better than no dressing-gown?” I suggested. They both glared at me.

“What I _meant_ ”, Mrs. MacLeish said, looking at me disapprovingly, “is that it was a very high-quality dressing-gown. Silken, I am sure. Max did say that he was paid well, but I do not think that he could afford something like that.”

“Possibly it was a gift”, Sherlock suggested. “Here.”

He quickly poured her another sherry, which she downed in one impressively quick shot. I began to wonder if she would make it to her sister's house this evening.

“This has been a great shock to you”, Sherlock said gently, “and you did the right thing in coming to us. We are inclined to investigate this case for you as a matter of urgency, and if you leave us your address in Kent, we shall communicate any findings to you as soon as we have them. One more question, if you please. You mentioned that your brother has a new master, after the passing of Mr. Rolleston. Do you happen to know his name?”

“I do, sirs”, she said, digging a card out of her copious handbag. “A rather unusual one, and I wrote it down for you. He lived in London before he inherited, a shock to him as Max said that he never knew Mr. Rolleston. His name is Mr. Fairdale Hobbs.”

Fortunately she was not looking at me as she spoke (all right, she was already simpering at Sherlock!), and the blue-eyed genius was a master of controlling his own expressions, so she did not realize that her brother's new master was in fact our former neighbour in this very house. 

Another simper and she was gone, Sherlock grinning at my exasperation. I would have swatted at him, but I still did not want to move unless absolutely necessary.

“A nice, long train ride”, he beamed happily. “I _do_ hope that I can find a way to keep myself..... entertained!”

I whimpered pitifully. If hopefully.

+~+~+

Our progress north was delayed slightly the following day, as Sherlock had a small matter in York to sort out for the town council, which was so trivial that he solved it between our mid-afternoon arrival and tea. We spent that night in the town, which enabled me to take in the truly magnificent cathedral. Of course it showed my own frankly pathetic detective skills that it was only the next day that I realized my friend had taken the case just to that end, which he admitted when challenged. That was the wonderful thing about him; every day we were together, I found that impossibly, I could love him even more.

I may or may not have shown my thanks by giving him a very enthusiastic blow-job at our hotel that night, which he may or may not have enjoyed mightily. I felt that that was not bad for someone who was, as Mrs. Lindberg had remarked recently, ‘forty-eleven’!

The following day we headed on to Newcastle, where we changed to a slower cross-country train and eventually alighted at Hexham Station. From there it was an even slower branch-line train, eventually alighting at a station in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, but which proclaimed itself 'Staward'. I observed that the station seemed large for such a seemingly empty locality.

“The railway runs down the East Allen valley from here”, Sherlock explained, “and this is the rail-head for the villages along the West Allen. The porter at Hexham said that they had planned to make this the junction for a line down that valley as well, but that the plans came to naught.”

We left the station and crossed the road to the unimaginatively-named “Roadside”, the home of our former co-tenant Mr. Hobbs. Fortunately even my limited detective skills could successfully find it, as the station house apart, there was not another dwelling within sight except for a distant farmhouse to the east. We knocked at the door, and after only a short time, it opened to reveal.....

Ye Gods!

+~+~+

My relationship with Sherlock meant that I had seen probably more sights than an English country doctor of my still definitely middle years should have done, and I had long thought that there were few things left that could truly surprise me. But the.... Thing that came through that door, and then actually stood up before us.... well. This man had to be at least seven foot tall, and not the willowy build that one so often gets with tall people. No, this was solid muscle filling the entire doorway, as if the Good Lord had decided to experiment with what happened when you added twenty per cent extra mass, all muscle, to your average human male, then threw in a bit extra just to make sure. I thought at once of our friend Mr. Vulcan Iden-Goring back in Hammersmith, but this giant had strawberry-blond hair, and wore both a kilt and a friendly enough expression. On reflection, that expression was probably just as well.

I was silently glad that I was standing behind Sherlock, coward that I was. My friend gave me a look that said he knew quite well what I was feeling, then presented his card to the giant human.

“Sirs?” it rumbled. I hoped fervently that it had been fed recently.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor John Watson”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Fairdale Hobbs was a tenant at the house we lodge at in Baker Street, in London. Is it possible to speak briefly with him?”

The Thing looked at us warily, as if considering where it might be convenient to bury our bodies. Then it nodded slowly.

“I believe that the master may be in”, it rumbled. “If you gentlemen would be so kind as to wait a moment, I shall see if he can receive you.”

It turned and led the way to a small but well-kept waiting room, taking our coats and placing them on a coat-rack in a small cloakroom next door. As I was watching him, I caught sight of a huge leather collar, which had to at least have been for a Great Dane. Or possibly a small horse. I gulped. It looked like Mr. Hobbs chose his pets from the same giant-size shop he got his servants from.

“Calm down, John.”

The fact he said those words in my ear, having slid silently across the room, made me jump a clear foot into the air and emit what was definitely a manly expression of surprise. Once my heart had stopped trying to beat its way out of my chest, I turned and glared at the smirking bastard.

Calm down?” I echoed. “With someone as big as that? Hell, if Mr. Hobbs takes exception to our visit, his henchman could probably bury our bodies without breaking a sweat!”

“I doubt that”, Sherlock smiled easily. “Especially as he is the subject of our visit.”

“What?”

“You did not notice that he has the same shaped nose as Mrs. MacLeish?” Sherlock said. “That is her nephew Max, of whom she is so concerned.”

That was a 'Max'? His parents had had foresight!

+~+~+

Mr. Fairdale Hobbs was much as I remembered him from the few times we had met going in and out of Baker Street; indeed, if anything he seemed even smaller. That, however, was probably due to the human mountain who remained next to him, looking at us suspiciously. I looked around for the dog but did not see it, although ominously there was a dog-basket in the corner that was so huge, I could have easily fitted in it myself.

Sherlock would protect me. I was sure of that. Well, fairly sure.

“You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. Hobbs asked politely. He could not have lived in 221B for any length of time without being fully aware of exactly what sort of relationship Sherlock and I had, although we had hardly ever spoken. I noted that he made no move to dismiss the man-mountain next to him. I wondered again if it had been fed recently.

Sherlock seemed to think for a moment, then smiled.

“Actually the doctor and I happened to have a case just outside Hexham”, he lied, “and I remembered that you lived but a few miles away. As we had some spare time, I thought we would pay a quick call to see how you were settling in, and then catch the next train back.”

Mr. Hobbs looked at him suspiciously. The Thing moved closer to him and stared at us hungri.... no, my imagination could stop right there!

“And what was this case?” Mr. Hobbs inquired. Sherlock looked shocked.

“I am sure that you would not expect me to betray client confidentiality”, he said. “Save to say that it was easily dealt with, which is why I now plan to spend a couple of days sightseeing with the doctor. Take in Hadrian's Wall and all the tourist sights, which he enjoys.”

Our host was clearly still suspicious, as was I by now, but Sherlock did not seem inclined to linger. Indeed, this seemed about to become one of our shortest cases ever. Sherlock rose quickly to his feet.

“We do not wish to dog your footsteps any longer”, he said with a smile. “I have had enough with following leads of late, and collaring criminals all over the place. Some fresh Bernician air will surely whip some colour into the good doctor's cheeks. We are pleased to see you have bedded in so well. We shall see ourselves out.”

And with that he strode quickly from the room. I hurried after him, keeping an eye out for the dog, but I made it safely to the door, only falling over my feet the once.

Twice.

All right, three times! And someone could stop smirking like that!

+~+~+

“I do not get it”, I said plaintively. We were in a small hotel in the unimaginatively if accurately named hamlet of Wall, and whilst I looked forward to walking amongst the Roman ruins the following day, I still could make neither head nor tail of my friend's actions in this case.

The great man chuckled, and heaved himself on top of me in the bed, eliciting a warning creak from the giant structure, into which even Max could have (possibly) fitted. Sherlock was clearly in a mood for slow, lazy sex tonight, which was great as I was still exhausted from the past few days. And it felt so good to have him gently tweaking my nipples, rousing me with an almost casual slowness towards a happy destination that I was in no hurry to reach. Getting there was, after all, half the fun.

“I would draw your attention to a number of things in this 'case'”, he said. “If you piece them all together, the solution is obvious. A little unusual, perhaps, and I doubt that you will either want or be able to publish this case any time soon, but still obvious.”

“What things?” I sighed. “Ohhhhh!”

Sherlock was gently rubbing our erect cocks together, not enough to get me any nearer that orgasm but enough to make my whole body tingle.

“First, the welts and marks which we know are on Mr. Maximilian Spears' very broad back”, Sherlock said, continuing his ministrations. “Second, the very large dog-collar. Third, the equally impressive dog-basket. And fourth, the fact that a man of that size chooses to remain in service to someone he could quite certainly dispatch without breaking a sweat, and who pays sufficiently for him to afford the very highest quality silk shirts and dressing-gowns. The shirt that Max was wearing had to be specially made by a shop in Edinburgh; I saw the label, and I am sure they do not normally stock Superhuman size. Let alone the fact that the kilt was also of a much softer material than is the norm.”

“I still do not get it”, I complained. He stopped rubbing himself against me, and quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Perhaps I should just hold off until you do?” he suggested playfully.

“Lord, no!” I said, unnaturally loudly in the empty room. “No, I can get it, really. Does the dog have anything to do with it?”

He gave my now tender cock one more rub before answering.

“Tell me, John”, he said quietly, “did you notice any dog hair on the furniture?”

I thought back.

“No”, I said, “but then, I was not looking for it. And some dogs do not shed.”

“Very few”, Sherlock said. “I will give you a clue that should be enough to show you the light. Mr. Fairdale Hobbs does not own a dog.”

I frowned, now totally confused.

“But why then would he have a collar?” I asked. “I mean, that thing was big enough to fit a......”

My whole body froze. Suddenly I had got it. Sherlock grinned from above me.

“We have a winner!” he teased.

“Mr. Hobbs and Max?” I gasped. 

“Some big men like to be dominated by their smaller partners”, Sherlock said airily. “You know the sort; the stronger or more powerful they are, the more release there is in allowing someone else to take complete charge of them. I would have thought that being my man would have shown you that, John.”

My mind whirred.

“The dog-basket?” I asked.

“For Max, when he misbehaves”, Sherlock grinned. “I quite like the idea.”

I prodded him for that, and he retaliated by suddenly stepping up his rubbing, tweaking my nipples at the same time. I groaned. 

“They are both consenting adults”, Sherlock said as he worked me to a finish, “and the fact that Mr. Hobbs is prepared to buy the very best quality silk clothes so that his steward does not have to suffer after a beating shows how much he cares. I am sure that, like us, they have limits beyond which our former neighbour will not go if his 'pet' says the word.”

“But Mr. Hobbs!” I said plaintively. “I mean, Max must be two foot taller than him!”

I had been so distracted what with one thing and another than I had not even noticed Sherlock fingering me slowly open – until he suddenly pushed into me, and my eyes rolled back as I came at once, letting out a strangled moan. He followed me soon after, then collapsed lazily on top of me, still inside me. Normally one or other of us would have cleaned up at this point, but the events of the day had exhausted me, and I slipped easily into sleep.

+~+~+

Sherlock must have woken up soon after and cleaned me up, for I was spotless when I woke the following morning. I thought of the odd couple living life their own particular way only a few miles west of here, and smiled to myself. Provided it was with a consenting adult and did not frighten the horses, what harm was there really?

Sherlock and I spent two more days in the area, catching the early train on the third day to Newcastle and thence to London. There we found a telegram from Mr. Hobbs waiting for us, with the simple message, 'Thank You'. Sherlock took the opportunity to write to Mrs. MacLeish, stating that the reason her brother had been bathing was to try to wash off a new cream which had caused an unfortunate reaction to his skin for some reason, and that as his 'master' (in every sense!) had recommended the cream in question, he had felt morally obligated to provide a silk dressing-gown and some quality clothes to alleviate any suffering.

Someone up there must have approved of Mr. Hobbs' life choices, because some nine years later he and Max decided to start a new life in the far western reaches of Canada. They booked a passage out there on board the _“Oceanic”_ , and declined the shipping company's offer of a transfer to their new and faster liner that was making its maiden voyage that same year. Thus they missed the fateful first – and last – voyage of the _“Titanic”._

Sixteen months to go.

+~+~+

Next time, a lot of things suddenly become clear, as someone finds a new home.


End file.
